Melt
by ineedyoursway
Summary: An old soul, a hard past, and a very, very small town.
1. Chapter 1

**one**

* * *

She is always very harsh. Stern. Quick.

Her voice carries over the voices of others'. In the park, in the supermarket. Her hair always in a tight bun perched painstakingly atop her head. High forehead, hardly lined. Thin lips. Beady blue eyes. Hidden smile.

"Here. Bring it here, Bella."

Not an overt type of love, but I knew. I always knew it was there. Somehow, I could tell.

Every weekend, we would visit my grandma. An exact replica, yet aged. Where my mother's hair is brown, there is grey. Blue eyes turned milky. High forehead, lined. Thin, pinched lips. Hidden smile.

She makes us chicken. It takes all day. I've never smelled anything so good.

Us, a trio of women, perched around a table so dank and dusty it is as though we sit amidst a crypt. Yet, still, it is alive. Alive with our voices and our smells, our ideas and quick laughs and gossiped stories.

She was 89 when she died on the second story bedroom of her home, my grandma. Sitting alone in the bed reading one of her usual magazines. Old age or fatigue or something related to something. She hadn't been to the doctor in a decade.

"If I'm broke, I'm too dang old to be fixed," she always said.

I remember listening as my mother sobbed openly in the living room, thin arms clutched around a flowery pillow, a layer of dust covering the table to her right.

I stood behind the kitchen doorway confused, yet knowing.

My hands, young and pliable, clutch the worn wood as the aids lift her from the house covered by a sheet drawn tight no air not breathing done.

"I know you don't understand," my mother said, callused hands cupping my cheeks, hair brushed from my forehead, blue eyes on my brown. "But you will."

I understood.

I understood then and I understand now, while my own mother lays in a hospital bed, all wires and tubes.

Freak accident, they say.

Drunk driver, they whisper.

At seventeen, I am my mother in wits and personality and picture. My hair is brown as her hair is. My skin pale as ivory, nearing sallow, just as hers is. We are petite, yet firm. Not thin, not thick. Small nose. Small lips. Our only difference lies in eyes. Mine are brown while hers, blue. A gift from an unspoken father, a permanent reminder on my face of what once was, but has never truly been.

I take care of her. I bring her water and food, to no avail. I help her move around on the bed. I read to her. I tell her stories. I tell her jokes. I pretend that everything is normal, that her hand in my hand is not limp. That her eyes do not flutter anxiously beneath closed lids. That the sound of her heart beating slow is strong, not weak.

Mother becomes daughter, daughter to mother.

She never wakes. We never wake her.

So it goes.

I am shipped off to Washington State, a foreign land of rain and trees and fathers.

"Bella," he says, his voice gruff. He stands at security. I recognize him from hazy pictures kept in hidden drawers in my mother's now empty nightstand. He has aged tremendously. I see nothing of myself in him. He puts on a smile that is forced and pained, and offers to carry my luggage in his meaty hands.

"I know you've never been here before . . ." he trails off. I nod, staring out the window at the landscape.

It is tree after tree after tree, all pushed up on each other, straining for more room. I imagine getting lost only three feet in, surrounded on all sides by lumbering timber and heavy, pine-needled branches.

Escape.

"Well, you're lucky that it's the beginning of the year. Forks High was more than willing to take you on for your senior year. You'll be starting a week late, of course, but that's not very much to catch up on."

Lucky.

"And well, you know, the town isn't very big, so I'm sure everyone will be very welcoming to you. I've told our neighbors that you're coming and all that, so they shouldn't be surprised . . ."

As he rambles I think of dark rooms in Arizona, where the sunlight only barely penetrates thick, age-encrusted blinds. I think of grandmas and mothers and generations of women, crowded in a room with piles of food. Tight buns atop heads, blue eyes, hidden smiles.

"Here we are," he says. We pull up to a house that is small, but quaint. A thin layer of green moss covers the roof, and two huge pine trees crowd in on either side. On both sides of the trees are mirror images of his own, though painted a few shades lighter or darker.

"Over there are the Stanley's," he says, motioning to the right as I pull my luggage from the back of the truck. "They have a daughter about your age. I see her sometimes with her boyfriend." His eyes turn stern and disapproving.

I nod.

"And over there are Mr. Cullen and his wife, Angela. Edward and Angela are very nice people. They moved in a few years back from some town in California. I'm sure they'll be very welcoming."

I glance over to the house. All of the windows are closed. The driveway is empty.

I nod.

We bring my stuff up to a small room on the second floor. The walls are tan. There is a twin bed in the corner with a off-white down comforter and two stacked pillows.

"It isn't much, I know. But we can decorate." He clears his throat. Shifts from one foot to the other. Looks uncomfortable.

"It's great," I offer.

He moves toward the door.

"If you need me . . ." he trails off, gestures downstairs.

I spend the rest of the day unpacking. Clothes neatly arranged according to size and color, pattern and type. Folded neatly in my dresser, hanging carefully in my closet. Everything has its place. Downstairs, I hear a knock on the door.

Pleasant voices filled with smiles.

"Bella! Come downstairs!"

I descend the stairs slowly. They creak beneath my feet. Turning the corner into the kitchen, I come upon the carefully smiling faces of what could only be Mr. and Mrs. Cullen.

* * *

**hello**


	2. Chapter 2

**two**

* * *

I look out at the dark night sky. It's a deep blue, nearing black as the last bit of the sun falls behind the horizon. The giant pine tree beside my window shakes restlessly in the wind, branches scraping and moving, needles falling to the ground.

As far as I can see, there are only houses and trees. The lights in our neighbor's house have gone out, well past the appropriate hour of sleep. In their backyard, a long forgotten play set sits idle, its swings creaking with rust.

Beyond, there are only trees.

I can't help but feel swallowed by the evergreen.

The Cullens were nice enough. Pleasant. Quaint.

There are a thousand couples like them that I have seen and met. Happy in their mediocrity, in their 3 bedrooms and 1.5 baths. Comfortable in their stability.

Sometimes, I long for that. Other times, I fear it worse than death.

Angela Cullen was especially lively. After greeting me, the first thing she did was deposit her freshly-made casserole in our sparse refrigerator. I was half tempted to remind her that no funerals will be occurring, not in this rainy town. Then, she talked. And talked. And talked.

I nodded along, pleasant enough. Her husband hung back, near silent. Similar to a bodyguard, though he said and did nearly nothing, everyone felt his presence. After a few hours of required small talk, the heavy weight of futile exhaustion began to crawl over my body.

"Maybe it's best we leave." He finally spoke, the first time all night. He cut Angela off straight in the middle of her sentence, something on baking cakes or cupcakes or bread.

"Oh." She stopped, startled. "Of course. You must be tired, Isabella. I'm sorry . . . sometimes my mouth just runs away and I can't seem to stop it." She chuckles half-heartedly. It dies out.

They leave and it as if they were never there at all. Charlie turns in early, around 8 o'clock. I spend the rest of the evening wandering the house. Most everything is covered by at least a small amount of dust. Many of the items in the kitchen seem to have never been moved at all.

And then it is too late and the house is too quiet and my thoughts are too loud. I lock the door to my room and I stare out the window.

The time goes slowly, yet somehow it is already 5 in the morning. The first licks of dawn are visible over the tops of the trees. A light turns on in the Cullen home. Upstairs, then off. Downstairs, then off. The front door opens.

Quietly, I crack open my bedroom window. Cool morning air leaks through the slit and brushes against my skin. Goosebumps.

Out the front door emerges Edward Cullen. It is still too dark to see him completely, but the curious color auburn color of his hair glints in the pale morning. I lean closer. My breath fogs the glass.

In his hands he lugs a surfboard. The trunk opens and he slides it in. The car clicks a few times before starting, and then he is gone. I wait until the taillights disappear down the street before I close my window, shutting it against the dewy cold with a quick snap.

Suddenly exhausted, I collapse onto the bed. My alarm rings two short hours later, and I come to the unfortunate realization that it is unacceptable to proclaim sickness on the first day of school.

It isn't until third period that I truly awaken, and that is only because of who stands in front of the class.

"I'm your senior year English teacher Mrs. Cullen," she says, all prim and proper and exactly how I didn't notice she was very obviously a teacher last night is sort of unfathomable. "I'm sure I've had a few of you before, obviously, but let's pretend I know none of you and take roll anyway."

When it comes to my name half the class looks and she throws me a quick smile. I duck my head.

We spend the rest of the class talking about books or reading or homework or whatever, but I find my thoughts drifting back to a set of taillights at 5am in the early morning cold.

The bell startles me into reality, and I jump up in my seat. Several people chuckle and look away.

"Isabella," Angela says, holding me after class. The rest of the students file out around me as I hover by my books. They sneak peeks and whisper, but not a true word is spoken.

"I go by Bella," I reply when the class is gone and the room is empty.

"Bella," she says, smiling. "Well, Bella, last night I was thinking . . . Charlie usually goes out fishing on the reservation on Friday nights, and I was just wondering if you'd like to spend dinner with Edward and I."

"Dinner," I repeat.

"Just as a welcome you to the neighborhood sort of thing. You're certainly not obligated, but I have to say I make a mean chicken stir fry." She winks and it's so painfully corny but she's trying so hard. I smile.

"Okay. Sure."

"Great! I'll see you tonight. Around 7?"

"Okay."

She's still smiling as I pack my things and leave the room.

The rest of the day is a blur, and I spend the afternoon waiting in the living room with a peculiar sort of anxiety. My eyes keep darting to the quaint house next door, with its off white paint and its blue shutters. I brush my hair and put on some lipstick, but take it off soon after. By the time seven rolls around, my stomach is raw with anxiety and my hands are sweaty.

It's beginning to rain as I walk next door. I duck under the eave and am about to knock when I hear muffled voices through the wood.

"I don't like it." A man's voice. Angry. Forced.

"Edward . . ." Quieter.

"You can't just do this, Ang. It's not okay."

"It's not like that and you know it. She just seems so sad, you don't understand—"

"I _do_ understand! She's not just some sick replacement—"

"I know that. I _know _that. God. It's just dinner."

The voices quiet down but their tone is no less vehement. Straining, I lean closer to the door. My foot steps on a faulty panel of wood and creaks obnoxiously.

"Wait, I think I hear . . ."

My heart beats loud in my chest. I move to turn around, but just as I swivel the door opens. I turn back, sheepish.

"There you are, Bella," Angela says with her usual thousand-watt smile. "Come on in!"

* * *

**i have nothing to say but i feel obligated so um awk**


	3. Chapter 3

**three**

* * *

I lost my virginity when I was thirteen years old in the back of a used, blue pick-up truck.

My then-boyfriend of two weeks and four days essentially proposed, making it nearly impossible to tell him 'no.' It was clumsy and painful and to be quite honest, I don't even really remember it entirely. I'd gotten my first period only a few months earlier, so all in all I was less a woman than a boy at that point.

Flat chested and squirming, with an Abercrombie and Fitch hoodie discarded on the floor below, I bled.

His name was Foster, which all the girls thought was cute even though he was apparently named after some forgotten Confederative relative that no one truly cared about even at the time. He didn't have any facial hair and he didn't have any chest hair. Looking back at pictures of us together I'm not even entirely convinced he'd hit puberty before we started dating.

We broke up but I still have the bracelet he got me while he family vacationed in Toronto.

That was the first and last boyfriend I ever had, which is why Angela's line of questioning could not have gotten more uncomfortable.

"I saw all the boys looking at you in class today. Such a pretty girl."

She talks like I'm not even here.

Edward Cullen doesn't talk at all.

"Heh," I mumble, just to make a noise.

"You know, we hardly ever have any new students being that it's such a small town. They're all curious, but shy. Maybe make an effort to talk to Alice. She sits next to you and she's such a pleasant girl. Plus, she's Edward's sister."

"Half-sister," he amends quickly. It's the first thing he's said all night.

I look over, startled.

He continues pushing the peas around on his plate.

"Yes, well, you still share some blood. And she thinks the world of you, you know that." Angela's voice trails off. Edward looks up. They hold eye contact for a long, drawn-out moment. I clear my throat.

Angela has prepared a veritable feast. On the table sits a full turkey, more suitable for Thanksgiving. There are also peas, mashed potatoes, two pitchers of lemonade, mixed greens, and a steaming bowl of gravy. But in my mouth the turkey is sawdust, the lemonade salt water. I am palpably uncomfortable, my movements jerky and my breathing quick.

I follow Edward's lead and push the food around on my plate.

Angela continues to ask me a few things about my life back in Arizona. For some reason, I don't want to tell her. I skirt around the answers, providing vague explanations of the weather and my suburban neighborhood. As we talk, Edward's posture grows more and more rigid. His shoulders cave inward, the grip on his fork and knife so strong that his knuckles are white.

It is as though I am in tune with every movement of his body. Even the slightest flick of the knife causes me to jolt up in my chair, spine straightening painfully.

Angela is oblivious.

"I'll bring out the dessert," she announces. "It's angel food cake, Edward's favorite. I hope you're a fan, Bella."

"Of course," I assure quickly.

She stands and leaves the room. Though I didn't think it was possible to reach another level of awkward anxiety, I was clearly wrong.

We radiate tension. Edward has stopped eating. He stares at his plate, fists curled around the fork and knife.

I'm tired of it. He doesn't want me here and he's said so, though I can't imagine it's anything that I've done. I haven't even been here a week, for God's sake.

"Sorry, have I offended you or something?" I ask.

He looks up, startled.

"What?"

"You're staring at that plate like it's killed your puppy."

He's speechless. His mouth opens. His lips are pink. His eyes are green. In the corner, there are the beginning signs of wrinkles.

He puts down the cutlery and places his hands in his lap.

"I've been rude," he declares.

_Yes, you have_. _But, why? _

"I can leave," I offer.

"Of course not."

"I should be getting home soon anyway."

"No."

We stare at each other, challenging. His eyes grow hard and cold, like the dew in the early morning air. And it reminds me . . .

"I saw you in the morning," I blurt out before I can stop myself.

"Excuse me?"

"Um, I was awake," I fumble around with my explanation in an attempt to sound a little bit less of a stalker. "The light came on. My window. Um, I saw you. You surf?"

It's less than smooth.

"Sometimes. Before work," he responds. It's clipped, but not questioning. For that I am grateful.

"He's an avid surfer, actually," Angela interjects, somewhere above my right shoulder. I jump up in the seat, having never actually heard her enter the room. She laughs and places a hand on the top of my head. I feel younger than I ever have before. "I didn't mean to frighten you, Bella. Here's your plate."

She places the dish in front of me and continues moving around the table, putting the cake in the middle. Her domesticity almost frightens me, and I watch with the curious expression of a child in a zoo as she unties her apron and cuts the cake into perfectly portion pieces.

"Do you surf, Bella?" she asks after handing them out.

"Arizona's land-locked," Edward replies for me. For someone whose favorite dessert is angel food cake, he leaves it curiously untouched.

"Yeah. What he said. Yeah. I mean, no. I've never surfed."

"Oh, you'd love it," Angela gushes. "I'm pretty awful myself, but that first wave . . ."

"I don't like water. Well, I don't like the ocean. I can hardly swim."

She looks shocked.

"Edward taught swim lessons when we were in high school. He'll teach you," she declares.

"What?" Edward and I ask simultaneously. Angela just laughs.

"Oh, why not? Just take her to the community pool. I'm not talking the ocean here. Everyone should know how to swim." She places her hand on top of Edward's on the table. "Would you like that, Bella?"

"Uh—"

"Angela—"

Angela pulls Edward to the side and whispers something quickly into his ear. Afterward, she smooths of her dress and smiles at me as if the last thirty seconds never occurred.

"Saturday?" he asks.

"Okay?"

And that is how, with less than one week in Forks, Washington, I end up half-naked and in a pool with Edward Cullen.

* * *

**sorry the update times are random i can't help it really**


	4. Chapter 4

**four**

* * *

I'm pretty sure the entire community is at the community pool. I recognize almost everyone from the high school, along with a few of the people that I've noticed scattered around "downtown." Even Charlie is here. After hearing about my new instructor, he decided he wanted to join in as well.

So I'm in a bikini with Edward Cullen and my dad. Cool.

"This is good exercise, you know," Charlie says as we wade deeper into the just a touch too warm water. His wet chest hair makes me feel as though I'm talking to an unnaturally intelligent ape.

"Right."

"At my age, it's important to keep this stuff up, Bells. I know with you youngins don't care so much."

"Youngins?" This is Washington, not South Carolina.

"Like oh, just eatin' that candy bar and sitting and watchin' the music videos on MTV won't catch up to you in the end."

"MTV?" It doesn't even play music videos anymore.

"Well, I'll tell ya, it does."

"Okay."

I dunk my head under the water and hold my breath, clenching my eyes shut. Longer, longer, longer. I hold it until my chest aches. I hold it until my heart pounds. I hold it until the water roars like rapids in my ears.

And I surface right into the personal space of Edward.

"Hello," he says, and I don't look at his body because Angela and my dad and there have to be other reasons besides those two, right?

He swallows.

So do I.

"I hope you don't mind that I tagged along, Edward. I've really been lookin' for some exercise."

"No problem, Chief," he says amiably. Oh, _now _he's amiable.

"I know how to swim though, of course. Though I can't say the same for Bella, here." Charlie puffs up his chest and stands next to Edward as though they are somehow on an equal playing field.

"I can swim," I defend myself. "Just not very well. But, I mean, if I were dropped in the middle of the ocean I wouldn't just _die_."

"I would probably die," Edward smirks. I blink at him. How do you respond to that?

You don't.

Edward makes us swim laps until I've been thoroughly poisoned with chlorine. I've coughed up at the very least two glasses full of water over the course of the afternoon, and it isn't long before I notice some chuckling stares.

"Aren't you a bit old for swim lessons?" A girl in a bikini two sizes too small for her boobs and butt calls from the side of the pool. She is surrounded on either side by boys wishing desperately for abs. They curl over and flex for no reason, but with only one year of fresh puberty they are all skin and bones.

"Aren't you a bit big for that bathing suit?" I ask sweetly. The boy on her left lets out a loud guffaw, but one biting stare from her silences him.

"Whatever."

"Cool."

I duck back under the water.

Hold, hold, hold. Burn, burn, burn. I like the feeling of it in my lungs. Of my heart pounding right out of my chest. Of my body deprived, dying for oxygen. Begging. Pleading. I am in control now. I control my fate now. Come up, live. Stay down, drown.

I open my eyes under water. Hazy legs and arms float across my vision, diving and kicking and treading water. It's a misty world down here. It's muted and soft and veiled. Detached.

I surface into the real world, heaving air into my lungs. Up here, nothing has changed. Charlie continues to swim slow laps. The water polo team in the corner passes their ball.

And Edward, from the far side of the pool, stares at me.

I catch his eye, and it's gone.

My fingers are starting to prune. I feel swollen. Slowly, I doggy paddle my way to the edge of the pool and pull myself out of the water. The air outside is somehow exactly the same temperature as the pool, and just as thick.

I need out.

In the locker room, I throw my clothes on over my wet bathing suit and sling my purse over my shoulder. Charlie is still swimming laps, and given the fact that he gave me a ride over here, I have nothing to do but wait.

Outside, it mists. The trees are hazy outlines in the distance, the people across the street mere specters in a ghostly world.

It as though I am underwater again.

I dig into my purse and pull out my pack of not-so-emergency cigarettes. The number of them left in the pack is dwindling, for what is there to do in buttfuck nowhere Washington but get rained on and smoke? I purse the cigarette between my lips and search for my lighter, which, naturally, is nowhere to be found.

"Seriously?" I ask the air, dumping out the meager contents of my purse onto the damp street before me.

Nothing but my wallet, two tampons, and a set of house keys that opens a forgotten door in Arizona state.

"Looking for something?" asks a voice over my shoulder. A lighter dangles into my vision, pale blue as the sky and burning fire. Edward lights the tip of my cigarette as I inhale.

"Thanks, Edward."

He nods.

"Or is it Mr. Cullen?" I ask.

"Edward."

After a moment's hesitation he sits beside me on the curb.

"Do you have an extra?" he asks. "Angela threw out my last pack."

"They're menthols," I say apologetically.

"I'll take what I can get at this point."

We smoke in silence until the butt of my cigarette glows red and hot.

Edward clears his throat and I feel like he's going to say something serious.

He doesn't.

"Why would you go out and buy menthols as a legitimate decision?" he asks with a small smile.

"Because I _like _menthols."

"There are people in this world that like menthols?"

"I never did before but my friend from Arizona basically hooked me on them." It's the first time I've spoken to anyone about anything that happened before Washington. It feels strange, like two worlds colliding into one misshapen whole of hot sun and icy rain.

"What was your friend like?" he asks.

And I almost don't tell him.

But then I do.

* * *

**the most normal relationship ive ever had was with a 29-year-old married man when i was 16. true story.**


	5. Chapter 5

**three**

* * *

I'm walking home from school when it begins to rain. Not just drizzle or mist like usual, but really _rain_. I'm drenched within minutes, the water bleeding through my skin and into my bones.

My backpack sits atop my head in a futile replacement for an umbrella. Cars whiz past, spraying my legs with pools of brown water as they go. And though it's probably the worst scenario I've been in in a long time, I can't help but smile.

I am renewed, reborn. The water is sweet and clear. It washes away every part of me with neither greed nor prejudice, down into the gutters that line the streets.

I don't want to go home.

So, I don't.

I sit on the curb, backpack next to me. All of the items inside it are soaked through, I'm sure. But I don't care. I don't care because of the way my socks squish slightly inside my shoes. I don't care because of the way the trees sway in the wind. I don't care because of the way the cloudy sky lights up in a blinding flash every time the lightning strikes. And I don't care because of the way the water dances, hundred of tapping feet as it hits the ground.

It isn't long before a car rumbles up in front of me, headlights blinding against the wet, gray world.

"What are you doing? Get in the car!" Edward Cullen leans over the passenger's seat and out the window. Water flows steadily in as he stares at me.

"No thanks!" I call back over the roar of the water.

"What?"

"I said, no thanks!"

"Are you crazy?"

"Maybe."

"You're crazy."

"Probably. You're going to ruin your seats."

"Just get in the car!"

"No thanks."

He rolls up the window with a manual crank, inch by inch. Carefully, he pulls away from me and back onto the road. I figure he's going home, back to his wife and his house and his life. Instead, he pulls up approximately twenty feet ahead, where the curb widens into a makeshift parking spot. The tires of his old, weather beaten truck roll onto the gravel with a soft, rumbling crunch.

The lights go out and he steps out of the car, all worn jeans and flannel. He ducks his head, shielding himself from the rain as he jogs over.

"You do realize you're sitting in an absolute downpour, right?" he asks when he gets to me. The rain is so loud on the pavement that he has to yell simply to be heard.

"I know!"

"You're insane."

"Sit down, then."

He stares at me for a few moments. Water runs through his bronze-brown hair and down his face, lodging somewhere in the thick, dirty flannel of his shirt. Then, instead of answering, he plops himself beside me on the curb.

"It's cold," he says.

"All the way down to the bones. It's refreshing, like being water from Heaven."

"I hope Heaven isn't this cold."

His hands rest atop curved knees. Callused and rough, I see the cracks even through the heavy rain. He presses them together, noticing my stare. Self-conscious.

"It's okay," I say. I grab his hand. Mine soft and pale, the antithesis to the weathered, beaten palms of Edward Cullen. They can only be from years of hard labor, working in rough conditions with rough people.

I hold one hand in both of mine, tracing the lines. Renee used to know how to read palms, though try as she might she never got me to sit still long enough to teach me. Edward watches me with a curious expression. His face is void of emotion, eerily calm. His eyes are half-lidded, but not in a sexual way—in a tired way. Exhausted.

I come to a white scar running the length of his pointer finger, ending in a curiously notched indent where the skin of the finger meets the thumb. As I trace it, water runs between our hands, where they meet and touch.

"What happened here?" I ask. In total, the scar is nearly four inches long. It isn't neat. Rather, it runs a jagged path over knuckle and bone, as though it never truly healed.

"One of my first days at the mill, an accident," he explains vaguely. His voice is low, rumbling like the distant thunder. "It was a long time ago."

"It looks like it needed stitches."

"It did, but at the time I was dumb enough to say it didn't. I taped it together. It healed anyway, though," he replies, using his other finger to trace down the line as well. "Actually, I forgot it was even there."

The rain is abating now, tapering off into a steady rain instead of a seemingly solid sheet of water. Our hair is completely soaked, mine falling in thick clumps over my shoulder, Edward's plastered to his forehead. It turns his hair two shades darker, somewhere closer to brown.

"You still work there?"

"Every day."

"When did you start?"

He hesitates.

"Right after high school."

"Why?"

He hesitates.

"It's a long story."

"Okay."

He hesitates.

"Thanks."

"Thanks for what?"

He hesitates.

"I don't really know. Just, thanks."

"You're welcome."

He smiles then, and it's a mixture of sadness and hope. It curls at the edges, but only barely, small little lines here and there. His eyes are sad, that much is true, but I can't help but notice something else there—something small, something waiting, something wanting so, so badly.

He stands.

"Do you want a ride home?" he asks. The rain has almost entirely stopped. A few spots of sunlight shine meekly through the clouds, casting a smoky hue as the water evaporates from the street.

"I think I'll walk."

"Okay," he says.

"Okay, I say.

* * *

**i know it's short. i wanted to capture the scene while the summer rain still fell in the city.**


	6. Chapter 6

**six**

* * *

Day 1

It's 7:16 AM

I fumble around for my alarm clock, slapping my palm against the plastic surface to silence it. Five more minutes.

It's 7:21 AM

Groaning, I pull myself out of bed. The room is dark in the early morning light, with soft tendrils of sunrise leaking through the parted blinds. I stumble along the hardwood floor, tripping on discarded clothing and shoes. I'm probably going to be late—again—given that school starts at 7:45.

I flick on the light and squint at the barren landscape that is my bedroom. The off-white walls are still entirely empty, my dresser is devoid of small knick-knacks, and my nightstand holds only my alarm clock and an equally off-white lamp.

I walk over to the window and roll up the blinds in one quick pull. The light is only just showing, brushing the tops of the large pine trees in a delicate caress. The Cullen house is completely dark save for one dim light coming from the smallest window on the second level. The blinds are drawn.

I root through my closet and pick out a suitably neutral pair of jeans and sweatshirt. The air is cold. When I take off my pajamas my skin grows goose bumps.

I hook my bra.

I turn around.

I pull up my jeans.

I glance outside.

There, in the giant window directly across from my own, stands Edward. His mouth is parted. When I meet his eyes, they widen.

Caught.

Stumbling over my too-long jeans, I duck from view of the window.

My bare back presses against the cold wall. My heart beats rapidly, my breath gasps. I blink several times in quick succession, trying to process what just happened. What exactly he just saw.

I lean over and shut the blinds.

My room is dark again.

I blow through the rest of my morning routine in a dazed whirlwind. My mind races at a million miles per minute, but my motions run auto-pilot. In fact, I'm moving so quickly that it's quite possible that I might even be on time.

I'm walking to my car and he's there.

"Bella," he says.

He hasn't shaved. Dark circles.

"I'm going to school," I reply.

"Bella," he says again, forcefully.

He lodges himself between me and the driver's side door.

"Excuse me."

He moves to the side.

"Wait."

"I'm going to be late."

"Bella, please. I'm sorr—"

I slam the door in his face.

He stands still in the driveway as I pull away.

I spend the day thinking about not thinking. Yet while Angela Cullen teaches me English, all I can think about is her husband's face at 7:21 in the morning.

When I get home, neither Edward nor Angela's car is in the driveway. I spend the rest of the day and the majority of the night in my room, only going downstairs for a few minutes after Charlie returns from work.

I fall asleep at my desk, textbook as a pillow.

Day 2

It's 7:16 AM

The alarm startles me awake, close enough to my ear to sound like an atomic bomb. I jolt up in the seat, neck and back aching after sleeping in such an awkward position. I rub tired eyes and muscles, arching against the top of the chair, my spine popping.

I stumble to the closet, flick on the light, and grab another jeans and sweatshirt combo. I glance over my shoulder. My blinds remain drawn.

There is no Edward that day, not even in passing. Just his wife teaching at a whiteboard, carefully explaining the biblical analogies in _East of Eden_.

Day 3

It's 7:16 AM

I open the blinds. Why?

My heart thumps in my chest.

All of their windows are black, but part of me knows he's waiting. It's the part of me deep down inside. The part of me that always knows when he's around, when he's near. The honest part of me, maybe.

The true.

I walk to my closet.

Sweatshirt, jeans.

The blinds are up.

The light is on.

I do it quickly, ashamed. I keep my back to the window. Throw off my pajamas and throw on my clothes, hooking my bra with shaky fingers. I feel on edge, a live wire. Adrenaline courses through my blood.

It's wrong, isn't it?

When I turn around, he isn't there.

But he is.

The light is off like he isn't there.

But he is.

I walk out the door and to the car. He stands on the porch, all flannel and denim. His expression is hard as he watches me. He looks like he hates me. But, he doesn't. Or, maybe, he does.

Because I have the power now.

Day 4

It's 7:16 AM

Thursday.

I open the blinds.

It's getting darker as we draw deeper into winter. The trees seem to move closer together, an optical illusion, almost as though they huddle for warmth. Even the air gets colder, though not cold enough to snow.

There is no moon, no sun.

The sky is a thick porridge of clouds, threatening rain.

And, well, I open the blinds.

The light across the way is already on. There is only one car in the driveway. Angela always arrives an hour before her first class, anyway.

He's not in the window.

But, he will be.

I move to the closet and get a sweatshirt and jeans. I'm not going to dress up. Not just for you, boy. Man.

It's easier to see, now. What with the sky so dark and our rooms so light.

He's there when I take off my shirt.

Now it's shameless, the way he stands there. Fully clothed. Face blank. Watching.

I pretend not to notice him, but I move slowly.

Shirt, shorts, underwear.

I am completely naked and he is completely there.

Underwear, bra, pants, shirt.

I'm completely dressed and he is completely gone.

I hear his car rumble out of the driveway as I linger in the bathroom, brushing my hair and teeth. A part of me is relieved. After all, we now have two different realities. When they mix it is poison.

Day 5

It's 7:16 AM.

Friday, end of the week.

I'm already awake, having woken up two minutes before my alarm even went off. My hand is poised and ready when it starts to beep, slamming down on the button before it finishes the sequence.

I open the blinds.

He's already there, waiting.

No emotion.

I'm naked.

Eye contact.

He presses his palm to the window.

His breath fogs the glass.

So separated, so close.

Underwear, bra, pants, shirt.

He's still there.

Both palms.

I stare at him.

No movement.

He nods.

And I leave.

* * *

**neighbor in the apt across the street brushes his teeth while staring out the window at 7:45 every morning. what a pervert ;)**


	7. Chapter 7

**seven**

* * *

I meet Jasper two weeks after my 18th birthday.

Three days after that, we're fucking.

It's not like I'm a slut. I think. After all, Jasper is only the second guy I've ever had sex with, though I like to count him as my real first. We do it in the shed outside of his house in Port Angeles, where he sleeps when his parents kick him out.

Or so he says.

I have a sneaking suspicion he just really wants a clubhouse.

He goes to the school in Port Angeles, meaning I have to drive an hour each way to see the guy. He doesn't come to Forks because he says it's in the middle of nowhere, like somehow Port Angeles isn't in the middle of nowhere. I mean, they have a mall. Big whoop.

In fact, that very mall is where we met. Inside one of those pretzel shops in the food court.

He bought me one.

It was all very cute.

But the story is very boring, so who cares?

The first week of October, he takes me to the ocean. I don't think I ever truly returned.

It's night time, closing in on 11 PM. I've told Charlie that I will be spending the night at a new friend's house, to which he nodded and/or grunted about and then continued watching his basketball game. I drive to Jasper's house in Port Angeles. It looks like mine, only situated approximately sixty miles east.

He's waiting outside, blonde hair pushed back inside a beanie. He's all long and lean and pale, a gangly ghost.

"No cars," he says, wheeling his bike out from the side of the house. It's old and rusted, too many months spent waiting in the Washington rain.

"I can't ride a bike," I confess. It's actually a deep dark secret. I hardly ever admit it to anyone.

There are many important moments in my life I never really achieved. Learning to swim, learning to ride a bike. Hell, I didn't even learn how to properly spell my full name until halfway through the second grade. I don't blame anyone for it, really. It was just that my mom's mind was full of so much _stuff_. It was full to bursting. She couldn't have possibly thought about what I was doing all the time, what with everything else going on.

I don't mind.

"I don't have a second bike anyway," Jasper says, motioning to the handlebars. I push myself up onto them as gracefully as I can manage. (It isn't graceful.) He grabs hold of my waist and steadies me. The right hand lingers as the left steers.

We go over bumpy terrain and fingers dig deeper into flesh. We fly past houses and trees and roads. Cars drive past us, so close I can feel the rush of wind from each one. Jasper is carefree, riding effortlessly around potholes and cracks in the pavement. We weave and wind for what feels like minutes, feels like hours.

Finally, a small unmarked path appears from nowhere on our right. He turns sharp and graceful.

It is a small dirt path that leads straight to the ocean.

The rocky shore and the distant moon, the thousands upon thousands of stars.

He rides up to a tree with no branches and rests the bike against its base. He holds his hand out to me, the paleness of it glowing against the brightness of the moon.

"Come with me?" he asks.

I nod.

We step over the various rocks and fallen logs, little tide pools and rushing water. He doesn't miss a single step as I stumble along beside him.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

My breath fogs before me, hot in the cool night air.

"My favorite spot in the whole world."

He says this like it's a momentous thing. Like the size and scope of his world isn't limited to the top western point of the Olympic Peninsula.

"And you're taking me?" I ask.

"Wouldn't take anyone else."

"Why?" I ask.

"Because I love you."

We've been dating for a week.

"Oh." I pause. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

He doesn't turn around the entire time we talk. We walk for a few more minutes, are breathing synchronized, our steps synchronized, our heartbeat synchronized.

"We're almost there," he says. We begin a steady, soft incline up a large pile of stones. Gradually, it gets steeper and steeper; until we're pulling ourselves up rock by rock. A fall from this height could be extremely perilous, if not fatal. But I don't care, for Jasper is on top and leaning over, one hand extended to pull me the rest of the way up.

I grab and he yanks, and together we tumble onto the wide, flat expanse of the uppermost rock.

Before us lay an absent moon and thousands upon thousands of stars. They're so bright they seem to scream at us, each fighting for the attention of our four small eyes. I try to take it in all at once but become overwhelmed. It is too much. It is too great.

"It is too beautiful."

"I know," he says. Next to me, he carefully licks a spliff shut. "I can't even look at it without this. I can't even take it in."

He inhales long and deep. Holds. Exhale.

He passes it over.

"Thanks," I breathe.

I inhale long and deep. Hold. Exhale.

We pass it back and forth until it's halfway down. He stubs it out against the rock and stiffs the rest of it in his pocket.

"For later," he says, for his eyes are red and his pupils relaxed, and the air around us is sweet yet spicy.

We sit several inches apart. We're not touching, but somehow I feel every part of him.

"Can I tell you a story about why I love you?" he asks.

"Sure," I say, because I know nothing about him or about anyone or anything. Not really.

"My neighbor across the street is sixty-three years old. For as long as I've ever known him he's been alone, with no family or parents or kids or whatever. He tends this same goddamn tree every day outside of his house. It's a weeping willow. When I was real young I used to want to go underneath it and make it my fort, y'know? But every time I tried he'd run out and chase me off with a bat."

He takes a breath.

"Anyway. He sucked. I thought he was the worst. But then my mom told me that when she first met him he had this wife. Apparently she was a good ten years younger than him and essentially a total babe. My dad used to watch out the window whenever she did her gardening and stuff. Anyway, one day she got pregnant and then went to get her pregnancy hospital shit done or whatever they even do, and turns out she had stomach cancer or whatever that's even called. So they took the baby away so she could get chemo or whatever, but she died anyway. And then he planted a weeping willow for her."

"That's horrible," I say.

"I know. And that's why I love you."

"I don't get it."

"Because it's so tragic, you know? I might as well love you now, for as long as I can, because tomorrow you might be gone and if I didn't love you already I'd never get a chance."

My brain is foggy yet clear, and it's with a completely sober mind that I say: "Well, in that case, I love you, too."

* * *

**thats a true story. he lives across from my grandma's house. he likes to garden.**


	8. Chapter 8

**eight**

* * *

I'm in that mood where I either want to be cuddled or fucked. You know that mood. That thick mood. The one that throbs deep down. Aches. I feel it all the way to my fingertips, to the tips of my toes, my hair. Swallowed.

I'm sitting in my room with nothing around me, staring out the window as the rain splatters against the glass. A few short feet away are the Cullens, milling about their house in some sort of homely fashion in which (I imagine) Edward returns from a long day at work and kisses Angela on the cheek, she serves him pot roast, etc.

But Angela's car is not in the drive, not even while the sun sets.

Just Edward. Always Edward.

My breath fogs the glass.

Three quick exhales.

My finger trails in the mist.

The light flicks on. The blinds go up.

He's there, palm pressed against the glass. From here, from far, I can see the little fog outlines surrounding the imprint when he removes it. Come here, it says. Join me, it says. Where have you been for so long, it says.

Behind me, Jasper sleeps in my bed. Nothing but his boxers, light hair growing on his cheeks, light hair growing on his neck, light hair growing on his chest. Just a boy who thinks he knows it all, thinks he knows nothing, maybe knows something in between.

I finally convinced him to come to Forks, playing the girlfriend card and the "I love you" card and all that. Plus, his parents gave him a car for his 18th and that never hurt anybody.

I leave him with a little peck on the forehead, in a house with no decorations and no parents.

He mumbles in his sleep and rolls over, face stuffed in my pillow.

Beneath my sweatshirt and jeans I wear no underwear. It's a conscious choice. Judge me.

He opens the door before I knock.

He knew, okay. He always fucking knows. He'll always fucking know.

"Who's the boy?" he asks, stepping aside as I enter.

"Boyfriend."

He slams the door.

"What's his name?"

"Why?"

"I just want to know."

"Are you gonna stalk him?"

"Stop acting like a child."

"I am a child."

That shuts him up.

I wander over to the living room. All of the blankets are varying shades of puce. They are stacked, neatly folded, next to the sofa. A medium-sized, dated television sits on an old, worn cabinet surrounded by sparse books. The rug is frayed, the carpet is worn, the wallpaper is stifling.

"I hate this room," he says.

"Me too."

He takes me to his little office near the back of the house. There's one large window that overlooks the backyard. It's dripping with rain, soaked. The droplets run down in little races, shooting to the bottom of the glass. I trace one drop with my finger, pause when it stops and joins its kin.

There's a small laptop in the corner on a dark wooden desk. There's a bookshelf with a few books. I glance over the titles. Nothing stands out until I see _The Great Gatsby_ stuck behind a short stack of abbreviated encyclopedias.

I pull it out and brush the dust from the cover.

"_The Great Gatsby_?" I ask.

"I never read it."

I flip open the cover. It reads: PROPERTY OF FORKS HIGH SCHOOL.

"It's a library book."

"I meant to return it."

He reaches his hand out as if to take it from me, but I tuck it into the inside of my jacket.

"I've never read it, either," I confess. His hand drops.

"It better be good. I nearly flunked out of senior year English because of that book."

"Probably because you never read it."

"Among other things," he trails off.

I circle the room three, four times. He watches.

"I should go back," I say.

"Why?"

He stands.

"Because Jasper's in my bed. Among other things," I mimic.

He scowls, deep and dark. It accentuates the wrinkles around his mouth, the cords in his neck, the spark in his eye.

"Don't give me that look."

He scoffs.

We both turn to the sudden noise of a car pulling up the drive. The gravel crunches under the tires. There's an exhale and a click as the car turns off, followed by a sudden rattling of keys as the front door opens.

I hear her before I see her, rushing around the living room and kitchen. Taking off her work clothes and putting away her things. She stayed late today. School ended hours ago, though I never actually showed up for it. What with Jasper taking the time to drive out to Forks, I decided to take a mental health day.

(Charlie remains blissfully unaware of my escapades, having spent both yesterday and last night at the station covering a double.)

Edward and I walk out into the kitchen. He's stiff as a board. Casual.

She faces the refrigerator, rooting deep inside.

"Oh!" she gasps as she turns, one hand holding a jar of mayonnaise and the other a packet of roast beef. "Bella. Edward?" It's a question.

"I came over to borrow this," I say, pulling out the book from beneath my jacket. "Edward said he had it."

"Oh."

"Yeah," Edward interjects. Genius.

"You weren't at school today," Angela says, slowly at first, then speeding up almost as if her brain is getting back on track. "Are you ill?"

It always weirds me out when people say 'ill' instead of 'sick.' Maybe it's the formality of it. Maybe I'm crazy.

"I had a migraine this morning," I say easily. I'm not quite sure when it became so easy to lie about all the facts in my life, but they roll of my tongue smooth as silk.

"Oh, honey. I hope you feel better. If that ever happens at school you know I have some Excedrin in my desk. Extra strength." She's practically cooing.

"Thanks. Well, I'm gonna go." My voice sounds dead. She'll write it off as teenage angst. "I'll bring this book back as soon as I'm done," I say, eyes on Edward. He doesn't respond. He stares at the back of my head as I leave.

I jog back to my house, the rain still pouring down in sheets.

The door is still unlocked, the house still a heavy, solid white.

Jasper remains asleep in my bed, sheets twisted around his legs, body rising and falling as he snores. I strip myself of clothes and shoes. I place the book casually on the desk. I shut the blinds to the world, to Edward. I wrap my body around Jasper's.

And I ache.

* * *

**soz it was late. new summer session, new kidlings to teach (kidlings who are older than me/lolkawledge), new schedule. also more booze. not related.**


	9. Chapter 9

**nine**

* * *

Everyone speaks of high school with this disgusting sort of nostalgia. Like it's the best thing that's ever happened, ever could have happened, ever will happen. Best four years of an entire measly existence in the Olympic Peninsula.

And if that's true (dear God, I hope it's not true) I really hope I'm just doing it wrong.

It's not like high school is Hell or anything. I'm not picked on or punished or relegated to those crude sort of tortures that linger in every teen drama movie. I've never thrown up in class or gone to the Prom or attended a pep rally. I've never gotten tripped in the hallways or aced a test or even been in any sort of inkling of a food fight.

The students around me wear only slightly varying outfits of sweatshirt and jeans. The jocks aren't huge and the popular girls aren't rich, the nerds aren't that nerdy and even the stoners don't bother to smoke in the bathroom anymore.

I'm swimming in a huge soup of normalcy, ignored yet tolerated by everyone with disturbing equality.

I go to school and I go home from school and I do my homework and I sleep and I return to school the next day.

Lather, rinse, repeat. It's so easy, yet I'm so tired.

"Hey Bella," some of them say. "What's up?"

I nod or smile or go back to eating my sandwich. Sometimes, I wish for the drama. For a fight, for a teenage pregnancy, for an affair. Something worth telling, something worth writing about. Something that verifies the fact that I'm alive, that I exist.

I could make the effort, I suppose, but with only a semester and a half left of this, why even bother?

In my free time, I fill out two applications to UW and UO. They're state schools and they're easy and they're extensions of the high school I never really bothered with. In my other free time, Edward and Charlie and I swim in the pool.

"You're getting better," Edward says, holding my waist when he shouldn't be holding my waist. His hands are hot like fire in this cold, cold water. I swear they burn me up.

"Not really."

"You're trying to get better."

"I mean, not really."

He lets go of my waist. I pout. He winks.

Not quite the most dangerous game, but nearly there. I feel hunted already.

"How you doin' over here, Bells?" Charlie asks as he swims over. Even in water his gait seems dopey and uneven.

"Never better."

"She's doing well, Charlie," Edward interjects. I feel his foot brush mine under water. Swollen and pruned, a toe slides along the tiled bottom right next to my own. I don't look up.

"That's great. Maybe we can go out to the ocean someday soon."

"Charlie, it's winter," I say.

"Is my daughter afraid of the cold?" Charlie guffaws.

"There's always wetsuits," Edward says.

I glare. He shrugs.

That deep part in his eye flickers bright.

"I think I'll pass," I say, ducking under the water so no one can continue the conversation. I open my eyes against the chlorine sting and watch as Charlie kicks away. Edward's legs, covered with a thin layer of hair, stay next to me. He doesn't move, but waits until a resurface, gasping for breath.

"Nice avoidance tactic," he says.

"Shut up. It works well. Watch."

He opens his mouth to respond but I duck under again. My feet press against the side of the pool and I kick off, weaving underwater until I reach the other end. I grab the cement edge and pull myself out awkwardly, splayed on the side of the pool like a beached whale.

I'm over all of it.

The monotony of it.

I can't even bother to pretend anymore.

It's like Groundhog day, each week the same. Each breath and each action and each goddamn person the same as yesterday, the day before. Stuck. Jasper hasn't called in a little over a week. My phone remains barren of all types of messages, my e-mail is empty, my connections forgotten.

And if everyone says this is the best time—the very best time—why is it that all I want to do is move on, on, on?

I break the rules and smoke in the changing room to avoid Edward.

I don't know why, I know why.

I can feel him waiting. I can see him in my mind. Damp shirt, sweaty forehead, plastered hair, weathered hands. Back resting against the rusty lockers, hands wringing together. Eyes darting to the entrance of the changing rooms.

Wet feet padding on the tile as they exit. Fat feet skinny feet thin feet long feet but not my feet, no not my feet.

I wonder if he wants a menthol.

I smoke it down to the stub, peppermint numb tongue. I blow my last exhale into a locker, trap the smoke, and kick the stub beneath a damp wooden bench. My backpack digs deep into my shoulders as I pass him by.

My eyes flicker only barely to the confusion on his face.

There is no game if there's only one player.

"Charlie," I call from the side of the pool. "Charlie!" I catch his attention over the screams of children, the whistle of the lifeguard, the yell of teenage boy. His eyes dart around the echoing room until they land on me. He comes over.

"You're leaving already? Do you need me to give you a ride home?"

Disappointment. At least I'm good at something, then.

"No, I'll walk. I'm tired of the water. Actually, I'm just tired."

"You should nap," Charlie suggests. I let him feel helpful.

"Yeah, good idea. I think I will."

Satisfied.

I turn around and exit. Edward remains in the same spot.

"You're leaving early," he says. Coarse at the center but hurt at the edges.

"I'm tired," I repeat for my new audience.

"No."

"What do you mean, no?"

"You're not tired."

He takes three long strides and passes on my left, trapping me in the double door exit. Muted sounds of the pool and the highway can be heard from both sides, a warring clash of white noise.

"I _am_ tired," I say, forcefully this time. My brows pinch, eyes pinch. Pursed lips.

"You're the wrong kind of tired."

"You don't understand."

He has the audacity to laugh. Not chuckle, not giggle. Full-blown, stomach-curling, vomit-enducing, pee your pants laughter. He nearly buckles.

"_I _don't understand tired? Me?" He's still smiling in that manic sort of way, where the points of his lips are turned down and his eyes are cold, hard slate.

"Don't cause I scene," I admonish, trying to push past him.

We dance and he blocks me again.

"You're the one who doesn't understand because you're so goddamn young." Harsh, voice like a whip.

"Don't belittle me."

"It's a fact, Bella. It's a fact."

"I'm just tired, okay? I'm tired of everything. Everything is so goddamn tiring all the goddamn time, okay?" Angry tears, squinted and squelched. "I know I have no right to feel it, but I do. I know, okay? I'm still goddamn tired."

He gets close to me then, voice eerily soothing.

"It feels like it's the whole world is tiring, is tired. But it's not. Not the whole world, anyway. Just yours. After all, its circumference barely breaches the midwest."

There's a pause. All his words jumble in my head, broken puzzle pieces whirling and whirling.

"I don't give a rat's ass about your stupid cryptic bullshit," I snap, successfully bulldozing through his left arm. He walks quickly, two steps behind as I cut through the parking lot of the community center.

I hear his feet stop.

"Bella!" he calls once I'm a few feet from the highway. Behind me, cars whiz past. Rush in the right ear, rush out the left. A sporadic, fading roar.

I wait for him to speak.

"It gets better. It gets bigger, and it gets better."

His face is confident, his stance is strong, his brow is furrowed.

(But his voice is sad.)

* * *

**ive gotten quite a bit of questions about le writing style. usually i write screenplays n such which has a very strict format u gotta use so i use ffn to experiment. im sorry if the sporadic grammar lapses bother u, but it's intentional and i'm not going to "fix" it. **

**style for this fic heavily influenced by Chuck Palahniuk and Markus Zusak. theyre more talented tho. check out some bookz. (Survivor, The Book Thief)**


	10. Chapter 10

**ten**

* * *

Jasper tastes like orange juice and tequila. It is the after party of a Homecoming we didn't bother to attend. Most girls are still in their dresses; a huge conglomerate of varying shades of pastel, frills, and ruffles. I'm the only one in jeans and a T-shirt. I also happen to be the only one here that doesn't attend PAHS.

Fortunately, everyone is too far gone to care.

After the spiked punch during the actual dance and the little flasks sipped from on the way to the party, the most anyone here is thinking about is where the next hit is going to come from.

Jasper is pulling me up the stairs and into a room that clearly belongs to someone's parents. There are pictures here and there on the desk and dresser, striped wallpaper, and one large window that overlooks the dark woods beyond. He pulls me down onto the bedspread—also striped—and towers over me on bent arms.

"This is so much better than Homecoming would've been."

I nod in agreement, but really I have no sort of comparison. I've never been to a school dance, not here or in Arizona. I suppose I've never bothered. There's something sort of ethereal about it to me. Something staged. Perhaps it is because I've only ever witnessed them via television shows and exorbitantly large Facebook albums.

Either way, all of the dresses are ugly anyway.

Jasper pulls at the hem of my frayed T-shirt and licks his way up my stomach. His fingers brush the hem of my bra, over the cup, under. He throws off his own shirt as well. It lands somewhere on the impeccably vacuumed carpet.

I stare over his shoulder at the ceiling. It's one of those ceilings with the stucco sort of pattern. The kind I used to have in Arizona, in a bedroom with purple walls and white, flowing curtains. I used to find shapes and pictures in that ceiling. An artificial sky of clouds.

He obscures my vision with a sloppy kiss to the lips.

"I don't want to right now," I say, feeling annoyed for some reason. He stops, shrugs, and rolls off. He's drunker than I am, but never inconsiderate.

"What's wrong?" he asks, robotic.

"Nothing. I'm just not drunk enough."

He shrugs again.

"Kay."

He takes my hand and we go back downstairs, where the music is loud and throbbing. All around us are couples—dedicated or impromptu—grinding into each other on couches and up against walls. We weave our way to the kitchen.

Half-empty bottles are everywhere, covering the countertops and kitchen table and floors. But, otherwise, the place is impeccable. There are stainless steel appliances and cutlery, all put away in their proper places. All of the cabinets match down to the handles, which are little replicas of forks and spoons. I run my finger over the curved edge of a teaspoon.

"Im gonna smoke a j," Jasper says, fishing a lighter from his pocket. "Wanna come?"

"Nah. Not now, anyway."

"Kay."

I pour myself two shots of vodka and down them both while staring at a porcelain cookie container.

I sit down at the kitchen table next two three or four bottles of liquor. I alternate. Outside, people are beginning to trickle away. It's onto the early hours of the morning, nearing the hazy time in-between pitch black and sunrise. Out of the small kitchen window I see Jasper and a few other boys standing in a circle of smoke.

I don't feel like joining. I don't feel like anything.

Maybe I'm depressed. Maybe I don't deserve to be depressed.

After a long time, I stand up. My vision grows spotty and dark, blurred on the edges. I'm either drunk or hungry or tired or just plain broken. I stumble over to the counter, catching myself on its edge. One of the handle fork things stabs into my side.

I hardly feel it.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. Jasper is calling from somewhere nearby, I'm sure. I silence it. Instead, I scroll through my embarrassingly short list of contacts. My finger freezes on Cullen residence. The home phone number was actually given to me by Angela for emergency use (or something like that). I've never actually called it.

I press send.

It rings three times.

"Hello?" It's Angela's groggy voice. I hang up.

I pace the length of kitchen, then hit send again.

"Hello?" Angela again. Sharper now. I hang up.

Five more minutes pass and I call a third time.

"Who the hell is this?" It's Edward. Angry.

I don't expect him to be angry. My thoughts are hazy, my tongue feels numb.

"Edward?"

There's a pause. A shuffling. I hear Angela in the background, muted and muffled.

"Bella?" His voice is quieter now.

"Can you come get me?"

I'm crying now. I'm crazy. I'm falling apart.

"What happened? Where are you?"

I don't answer.

"Bella? Are you still there?"

I almost hang up.

"I'm in Port Angeles."

"What? Christ."

"Edward?"

"Bella, I'm here."

"I think I'm falling apart. I think I'm going crazy."

My face contorts. Jasper shows up in the kitchen. His eyes are red and dilated. He walks over, his face concerned. I turn around.

"I'm coming to get you. Do you have an address?"

"No."

"Christ. It's going to take me an hour or so, at least."

"I know. I'm going to hang up. Jasper's here."

"No! No, don't hang up. Stay on the line."

I hear movement on the other end. Thumps. The faint jingle of keys. Jasper wraps his arms around my waist, his chin on my shoulder. I feel split apart, half of me in Forks with Edward and half of me in Port Angeles with Jasper.

"Bella," Jasper whispers, his voice sultry and smooth. Vanilla. "I saved some for you."

He pulls the joint from his pocket. There's about an inch and a half left. I put the phone down on the table.

"Do you think I'm crazy?" I ask Jasper as he lights it. My voice leaks insecurity.

"Of course. The very best kind." His speaks slow and steady. One hand on the back of my neck and one hand holding the joint to my lips as I inhale. Hold it in. My lungs are squeezing tight tight tighter. Release.

"Another?" he asks. I nod.

And again.

We go outside. My phone is inside.

It is still dark, or maybe that's just me. I lay down, detached. The grass is cold and damp on the back of my neck. The stars are bright. Shining and heavy. They balance on strings from the invisible puppeteer, dangling precariously in the sky.

They strain against their wire, growing fat with light. They're going to fall down on me. I know it. I cower.

"We're gonna go back to my house now, Bella." It's Jasper. He's close but his voice is far. In a tunnel.

"I want to stay here."

He laughs.

"This isn't even your house."

"I want to stay. I don't want to go. You can't make me go."

"Bella."

"Go away Jasper I don't even fucking like you!" I'm screaming into the grass and I don't even know what I'm saying I'm just speaking and speaking and speaking because I'm crazy crazy crazy.

"Bitch," he mutters and then he's gone and it's just me and the heavy stars.

I don't know how much time passes before he shows up. I'm counting the blades of grass before me. I watch as each exhale moves them slightly, little waves of manufactured wind. Enraptured.

In the back of my mind, I hear the car stop. I feel the headlights. The door opens and closes.

I clutch at the back of his neck as he lifts me up. His arms are around my back and underneath me, and it's disgusting how I know him just by his smell.

I've faded into a neutral oblivion, where all I register is the feel of the fabric beneath me and the smudge on the upper right corner of the windshield.

"You're freezing," he says, hand on my hands. He blasts the heater and points the vents at my face. Numb.

I rest my forehead against the window as he drives, eyes closed. Exhausted.

"How did you find me?" I ask. My exhales fog the glass.

"I got lucky. I drove around the neighborhoods until I saw you."

No, he doesn't understand.

"How do you _always _find me?"

"What?"

"Pull over."

"Bella . . ."

"Pull over," I repeat, and because it's Edward and I know he will, he does.

He stares out the window.

We're silent.

"You're not crazy," he finally says, but he doesn't look at me. I smile but I hardly feel it. I unbuckle my seatbelt and turn toward him. He continues to stare out the windshield, both hands gripping the steering wheel tightly.

"Yes, I am." I almost laugh. "The very best kind."

And then I lean over and kiss him.

* * *

**fragment (consider revising)**


	11. Chapter 11

**eleven**

* * *

And this is the only immortality you and I may share, my Lolita.

* * *

His lips are frozen beneath mine. Stuck together with glue, pursed tight and stone and unyielding. I feel his right arm digging into my stomach. Hard. (And hard.) The jut of his elbow hits right above my belly button. I groan and push harder, not willing to be rejected. Not in this haze, not in this night.

I wrap my hands around his neck until he's forced to yield at least slightly, head bent to the side, lips opening slightly as I force.

"Bella," I hear, muffled and far away. I ignore it.

I open my mouth and my tongue touches his lips and I hear him say: "Oh, oh, oh." (Oh.)

He's responding now, hesitant. Reluctant. Fingers barely brushing the back of my shirt as I scoot myself further between his chest and the steering wheel. My fingers entangle in his hair, squeeze and twist. He moans, and when I open my eyes I see his own clenched ferociously shut.

His hands roam up underneath my shirt and I swear it's never like this, not ever. I straddle him and I feel him there just waiting and pushing up into me and all I want to do is get closer and closer and closer and

His lips are cool and wet and his tongue is cool an wet and I feel his stubble against my cheek against my neck as his lips travel further down down down to me

And

(Sigh.)

And it's reverent. It's worship.

My palm slams against the fogged glass as lips and breast meet just like they were waiting and wanting and wanting and

He palms them both almost angrily, almost violent. My head is thrown back and I don't think either of us is going to stop until we're completely done, completely spent. Furious. Bruised.

We are tangled together but I manage to tear his shirt off, limbs brushing limbs brushing limbs. His chest hair is thick and foreign to me. I'm used to boys, young boys. (Not men, never men.) My hands run up through it and over to his neck again, and he's staring at me with those half-lidded eyes like he can't see.

Like he won't see.

Through his jeans I feel all him of him, pushing further and further and further. He's moaning into my neck like he just can't get off, like he just can't finish, like he just can't. I bite down on his neck, just below his ear and I've almost got him, almost got him.

With his hands on me like this—like I've wanted more than I can even think—I swear to God I'm immortal.

And when we're just about _there_

His phone rings.

* * *

**i know it's a short chapter but i couldn't mix it. top quote (c) vladimir nabokov**


	12. Chapter 12

**twelve**

* * *

Edward doesn't speak to me the entire way home. He stays on the line with Angela, knuckles white around the hard plastic of the cell phone. He grunts into the phone a few times, saying things like: yes, soon, almost.

I feel as though I'm in some sort of alternate universe. It's like all the things that have happened are so far beyond the realm of normalcy that I can't even seem to comprehend that they've occurred.

Suddenly, everything is so god damn loud.

The rain on the windshield, the distant thunder, the rattle of the trees. The tires on the road, the click click click of the turn signal. Edward's steady breathing is a rumbling roar. It's like I can hear every one of my bones moving around inside my skin, all the joints knocking against each other like bumper cars, grinding and smacking.

I curl my hands into fists and shove them against my ears, wishing more than anything that I could just mute all the god damn noise. But, I swear, it feels as if I've only trapped them. All the noises pool together, congeal inside my ear until I'm drowning drowning drowning in them.

I feel us stop and I'm stumbling out of the car before he can stop me.

He doesn't try.

Instead, he immediately backs out of the driveway and pulls over into his own. I don't stay long enough to see him go inside.

Charlie is still asleep—I can hear his snores from here. I stumble through the dim dawn light to my room, passing out on top of the covers, shoes and all.

I don't wake up until that evening when Charlie knocks on my door over and over and over.

"Bella?" he asks, for what feels like the thousandth time. The doorknob rattles. Somehow, I had the sanity to lock it before I fell asleep.

I rub my eyes and groan, feeling sticky and sore. My muscles ache like I've just run a marathon, and according to the nearly immaculate bedspread I didn't move an inch after I passed out.

Charlie's knocking continues as I make my way over to the mirror, gauging my appearance on a scale from one to Hell. I'm hovering around purgatory. My make-up is smeared slutty, my hair a rat's nest atop my head. My eyes seem hollow and unforgiving, the circles beneath them thick, dark chalk.

I feel (am) sallow.

"Bella," I hear again through the door. "Bella, your friend is here. Says it's urgent. You need to introduce me to your male friends . . ."

He trails off.

"I'll be out in a second," I call. My voice is shaky and I wish I could just take it all back all of it every last bit.

"Oh, okay. Well, he's in the kitchen. He's been waiting awhile, Bella. He won't leave."

"I'll be out in a second," I repeat.

I wait until I hear Charlie's footsteps complete the stairs before darting across the hall to the bathroom. I turn the water for the shower on as hot as it will go, right up to the point where the glass mirror steams thick with fog.

I strip myself naked and let myself burn.

By the time I make it downstairs, my hair is soaked and my fingers are pruned. Jasper sits at the kitchen table. From his stance and posture it looks as though he is just minutes from leaving. His back is curved over the table, his fingers drumming the wood. He clearly hasn't bathed or changed clothes since last night. I wonder if he even slept.

He looks as shitty as I feel.

My foot causes the floorboards of the last stair to creak. He looks up.

"Bella," he says, eyes ringed with red.

"Jasper." Monotone.

From the living room, Charlie hoots about something or another on the television. Jasper's eyes dart in the direction, then he stands.

"Can we talk? Outside?"

As we walk to the backyard I wonder if we're still together anymore. Is he still my boyfriend after last night? Do we just stay in a relationship? Do we really need to iron anything out, or is that it?

It feels so much like _it_.

"I brought you this," he says, pulling my cell phone out of his pocket. "You left it, um, last night." His tennis shoes shuffle against the dirty earth. Scrape.

"Thanks," I say, taking it and shoving it in my pocket. Flashes of last night flood my memory, bleeding in front of my eyes like a fresh wound. I clench them shut.

"Look, do you wanna go somewhere? I just can't be here. I just wanna go somewhere," he says.

"Where?" I ask.

"I know a place."

I tell Charlie I'm leaving and then we're in Jasper's car, driving down the highway toward Port Angeles. We're quiet, our breathing all out of whack. He inhales, I exhale. I try to synchronize us but I just can't. I don't even know why I notice.

I don't even know why I care.

We pull off onto a farm road. The car rattles and rolls as we stumble over the mottled ground. I clutch the dashboard, trying not to throw up. I remember how little I've eaten, but how much I've consumed.

Finally, mercifully, we park. It's actually a rather big gravel parking lot, but we are the only car.

"It's the designated Halloween farm spot," Jasper explains as he shuts off the ignition. "It's off-season now, of course. It closed about a month ago. But they keep the hay maze up all year."

I can smell the hay from the parking lot. The sweet, sickly smell. The smell being young, of caramel apples, costumes, and nostalgia. The hay maze itself is damp and nearly dilapidated.

Jasper puts his jacket out for me to sit on, and we talk.

I try so hard to listen, but I'm not thinking of him.

I'm thinking of all the things I've missed. All the things I've truly noticed.

Like the way Edward exhales sharp and quick when he smiles, but he doesn't quite laugh.

Or how he always finds a way to place both hands on my waist, whether it be casual or otherwise.

Or his face in the early morning when he's going to surf. That deep-set frown of concentration. That glance up to my window where he knows I'm watching.

All these things I never noticed, not really.

Not like now, where I miss him so deeply that a part of me aches.

I've had a taste of the nectar and now, I'm afraid, I'm an addict.

Jasper takes me back home an hour later, just as the sun is setting. While neither of us say it, it is obvious to us both that this is the end of us. He walks me to my door for the first time in our entire relationship, and then he ends it.

"I loved you, B, and I won't ever regret it," he says. He lifts my pinky finger to his mouth and kisses it.

"I loved you, too," I reply, though I'm still not sure, not really.

As Jasper pulls away I watch Angela leave her house as well. She crosses the lawn to her car and slides in, pulling a U-Turn. She catches my eye as she drives past our house.

She smiles.

And even so, I don't hesitate for a second before crossing to the Cullen's. Edward's truck still sits in the driveway. I know he's inside.

I knock on the door, sharp. The footsteps come quickly. These feet were waiting.

The door swings open and he grabs my wrist, pulling me inside so quick and harsh that I start to sense anger. But I am wrong, for he immediately slams the door shut and pushes my back up into it, his lips pressing against mine before I can even say 'hello.'

If it isn't anger, it must be passion.

Or, maybe, desperation.

* * *

**u can follow me on twitter if u want it's ineedyoursway. i generally rant about my job and my school and my life. my picture is a seagull because seagulls. it's private but i don't reject u unless you're spam so just don't be spam and it's settled.**


	13. Chapter 13

**thirteen**

* * *

"It's like I'm in this fish tank with no water and I can't—I can't breathe and—"

Edward cuts off with a sharp intake of breath. My lips meet that spot just above his collarbone. My forehead rubs against the stubble on his chin and cheeks. His hands grasp my waist—hard. Bruises hard. Pain hard.

My lips move up his neck and he squeezes.

I straddle his lap and I feel him hard there, hard everywhere.

"Bella, I can't—"

He stops.

"Bella—"

I cover his lips with my own and he responds like it's his very last time. His hands tangle in my hair and pull me as far down as possible, until our heaving chests meet and kiss again again again

"I can't keep trying to save people in a sinking ship." His voice cracks.

I pull back and stare at him, inches from the face so creased and tired and just worn right down. I clasp both of his cheeks and lean closer, using my thumbs to press away the lines in his forehead and eyes and mouth until he relaxes. His hands grasp my wrists, guiding me along.

"You have to stop thinking so much. Stop thinking so god damn much," I say, exhaling onto his face. He shifts.

"Sometimes I forget the way," he confesses.

"You're not the first one."

He cups my cheek.

"I'm drowning," he says. "I think I'm drowning."

I sigh.

"Well, then so am I."

* * *

**drabble from the weary; im trying**

**unpopular opinion from unpopular me: kristen stewart's sex life is LEGENDARY**


	14. Chapter 14

**fourteen**

* * *

I'm curled up in bed when my cell phone rings. It's early morning: dark and cold. My window is parted slightly. The wind causes the curtains to dance. I'm partly awake, awake enough to know who's calling without needing to check the ID.

"Bella," he says, his voice kind of breathless kind of raw.

"Where are you?" I ask.

"La Push."

"I didn't see you leave."

"I know."

Through the phone, I can hear the gentle, soothing tumble of waves lapping against a rocky shore. I imagine him standing there, surfboard resting against a tree as he sits in the early morning light. Above him, the moon and stars still linger, but the tips of the horizon glow soft and pink.

"Angela's leaving tonight," he says after a pause.

"Where's she going?"

It's the very first weekend of winter break. According to the movies, there's supposed to be snow and caroling and presents and reindeer and store specials and Santas and overall Christmas cheer. In Forks, it rains.

"She's going to stay with her sister for the weekend," he says.

"Why?"

"Because she wants to visit her for Christmas, that's why." His tone is harsher.

"Jeez, don't need to get all defensive about it."

He sighs. I imagine a pinched nose, a creased forehead.

"It's been a long week."

"Sorry," I apologize, but my voice is flat and tired.

"Will you come over tonight?" he asks.

"Is that your way of asking me to have sex with you?"

He pauses.

"No." Yes.

"What time?"

"I don't know . . ." He trails off.

"I'll come over after Charlie goes to bed."

"Okay."

"Okay."

I fall back into a restless sleep, tossing and turning. Twisted in the sheets. I wake up again when the sun is high, the milky light diffused by the sheer white curtains around my window. I wander downstairs to discover Charlie already gone, probably off to work or something. The house is pretty vacant of food, so I decide to take a quick trip to the grocery store.

With Charlie's credit card.

I run into Jessica in the cereal aisle.

"You're Bella, right?" she asks, throwing a box of Corn Flakes into the cart. She acts like she's shopping alone, but I definitely saw her mom and brother a couple aisles over.

"Yep."

"You live next door."

"Yep."

"We should hang out or something. My boyfriend Mike is throwing this party tonight at his house and you should come."

"I don't know. I kind of have plans."

She gives me a dubious look. Apparently other people are aware that I don't have friends as well. I suddenly feel insecure, something I haven't felt since I moved here. I was comfortable in my anonymity, but, apparently, I'm not quite as anonymous as I thought.

"I'll stop by," I offer.

"Cool." She takes out her cell phone. "What your number?" she asks. I give to her and she types rapidly. "I just texted you so now you'll have mine. I'll send you the address and stuff."

"Kay."

I'm about to turn away when she stops me.

"Sorry, I just have to ask . . ." she trails off.

"What?"

"Did you really date Jasper? You know, from PA?"

"Yeah?"

"That's pretty bad ass. He's a total druggie."

"Yeah, he is," I sort of smile. She beams back. I see her mom and brother turn the corner into the aisle.

"Jessica!" she calls. "Did you get the extra fiber cereal like I asked?"

"Yes, Mom." She throws me an apologetic smile.

"Oh, who's your new friend?"

"This is Bella." Because apparently we're friends now.

"Hi," I wave.

"You're Charlie's daughter, right?"

"Yep."

"Mom, come on. Bella has to go," Jessica says, pulling her by the arm away from me.

"Alright, alright. Well, it was a pleasure to finally meet you, Bella," she says.

"You, too."

I watch as they turn the corner, a quaint little family of three. I imagine Mrs. Stanley getting all of the ingredients necessary for a week of wholesome dinners. She slaves away at the stove until her husband gets home. Jessica and her brother set the table, of course. They spend 6PM to 7PM eating, complimenting Mrs. Stanley on her delectable side salad and how the steak is cooked just right. Then, Jessica and her brother go to bed and Mr. and Mrs. Stanley have some time of their own. They drink moderately expensive wine, share a few chaste kisses, and fall asleep on separate sides of the bed.

I feel that pit in my gut, a curious mixture of jealousy and repulsion. I squash it down and go home.

Jessica texts me at around ten that night. Charlie is still awake downstairs, eyes drooping as he watches some after hours television.

"Dad," I say. He jolts up from his semi-sleep and stares at me like he's never had a daughter.

"Yeah Bell?"

"I'm going to spend the night at Jessica Stanley's."

"Oh, you're spending the night next door?" he asks.

"Yep."

He thinks the house to the right; I think the house to the left. Whatever.

"Have fun, then."

"Kay."

Jessica's boyfriend's house is only a few streets away so I decide to walk. Almost everyone lives in this neighborhood. It's the middle-ground subdivision. All of the houses contain three bedrooms and 2.5 baths. They have moderately sized front and back yards. The mailboxes have locks. The front doors are painted.

I hear the music before I even turn the corner onto his street. The thumping bass is so loud I'm surprised no one has called to complain. On the grass outside of the house students mill about in haphazard patterns. I recognize most of them from school. The Asian in Biology, that girl with the frizzy hair I'm for some reason always behind in line in the cafeteria.

I step through the front door and the temperature is far too high for a space this small. It's safe to say at least 95% of the student population of Forks High School is here, though I also recognize some of Jasper's friends from PAHS. Jasper is probably here as well. He was never one to miss a party.

"Bella, there you are!" I recognize Jessica's voice, its high pitch cutting over the rest of the party noise. "Here," she says, shoving a strange looking concoction into my hand.

"It's jungle juice," she explains. "I know it looks kinda janky but I promise it's not roofied."

"Well, that's good."

"Come here. I have someone who wants to meet you." We weave through the crowd. Her arm is sweaty and slightly sticky, and I'm pretty sure I count at least three boners pressed 'accidentally' into my back.

"This is Alice," she says, gesturing to the imp of a girl on the couch. She hardly looks old enough for middle school, nonetheless high school. Her hair is black, short, and cut into a neat little bob. Her eyes are huge and crystal blue, and the way it all mixes she sort of reminds me of an anime character.

"Hi."

"Oh my God," Alice says. "Sit here."

She pushes the girl on her left down the couch. Like a game of human dominos, the one unlucky guy on the end falls to the ground with a curse.

She grabs my forearm with all her strength and leans in. She's all spicy tequila breath and hazy red eyes.

"You have to tell me how you got with Jasper," she says. Her nails dig into my skin.

"Alice is obsessed with him," Jessica interjects.

"Oh! And how big is his penis? I have to know. I have to know right now."

I knock back the rest of my drink and approximate the distance with my hands.

"Oh my God. Oh my God." She throws herself against the back of the couch.

I spend the greater part of the next hour thoroughly interrogated by Alice. I glance at my phone—it's closing in on one in the morning.

"You know, Jasper is probably here somewhere. Actually, I bet he's in the backyard smoking," I say.

Alice leaps up like her ass is on fire.

"I'll be back," she announces.

On my other side, Jessica takes a moment to remove her tongue from her boyfriend's throat.

"I hope this goes better than last time," she says.

"What happened last time?"

"Alice threw up on his shoes."

"Oh."

Judging by the amount of people Alice almost crashes into trying to leave the room, I don't exactly have high hopes.

"I'm gonna go," I say.

"Already?" Jessica pouts. Her lower lip glints with sparkly gloss. Her boyfriend's sweaty forehead lolls against her shoulder.

"Yeah, I gotta be somewhere."

"Whatever. Come to the next one though."

"Kay."

I weave my way back through the party and out the front door. The cold night air is a shock to my system. I inhale sharply and wrap my arms around myself. By the time I get to the Cullen home my lips are blue.

I knock.

The door opens.

He pulls me inside.

My frozen lips are met with fire.

* * *

**i had a dream last night that christian bale was my boyfriend ugh you guys life isnt fair**


	15. Chapter 15

**fifteen**

* * *

His head rests on my chest. My hands weave through his hair and his arms wrap tighter around me, twisting under my back, fingers in my spine.

"I kind of wanted to be a used car salesman at one point," he offers, hot exhales on my shirt.

"That is probably one of the most depressing things I've ever heard."

"Why?" he asks, all defensive now. I feel rather than see his head tilt up.

"Who aspires to be a used car salesman? Like, really? That's the kind of job someone has a mid-life crisis over."

"It just seemed very powerful. I don't know. My uncle was a used car salesman."

"Not even new cars? Reach for the stars."

He rolls over, off me.

"Jesus, Bella. Not all of us have it come easily."

"Hey, hey. Don't be mad." I throw my arms over his hunched shoulders, wrinkled fabric where it bunches in the creases. His head hangs back to look at me, tilting to the side.

"I'm not," he says. "I just—you know. Some people grow up with something exemplary about them. I don't know, they're smart or they're funny or they've just got that one thing. I've never been one of those people. I'm just average. It happens."

"That's a bit depressing."

He shrugs.

"I've accepted it. You're smart though. You'll go places, I'll bet."

I roll my eyes and pull him back onto the bed. He falls onto the blankets with a huff. A half empty bottle of wine sits open on the nightstand table. It's the cheap kind. The sort of brand you get at the local supermarket. The kind that occasionally comes in the plastic bottle as well. I reach over and pull it to my lips. He watches.

I'm warm and buzzed and this room is hot and the windows are fogged and I watch as his arm snakes around my waist once more. Two fingers roam beneath my shirt, around and around on my skin as I hum, threading through his hair again.

He's pushing up and up and up until my shirt is off and he's over me completely, hot lips on skin on cheek on neck.

"Why are you married to her?"

He pushes himself up on his forearms, hovering now. There's a line where his eyebrows meet, pursed in the center. His eyes are dark and cloudy, the pupils dilated so wide in the dim light I can hardly see the green.

"What?" he asks, but it's more of a sharp exhale.

"I never asked so now I'm asking. Why?"

"Jesus, Bella. It's a long story. I don't want to talk about it right now."

"Well you're never going to want to talk about it, so . . ."

He presses his lips together. The vein in his forehead pulses a steady heartbeat.

We pause, caught in a limbo of heavy breathing and humid air. He opens his mouth slightly like he's going to speak, but swallows instead, almost as if he swallowed the words right down.

I sigh and push at his forearm. He lets me out from underneath him and I slide off the bed, picking my shirt up from the floor and pulling it back over my head. I feel his eyes on me, watching every move as I do it.

It's nearly early morning now. The room is filled with soft, dim light. It filters through heavy blinds in long, pale stripes. They slice across his chest in parallel wounds.

My hand touches the doorknob and he says: "Don't go."

It's quiet, barely there. I turn only slightly, a profile for a whispered breath.

"You can't say anything to Angela," he says.

I almost scoff. We're so far beyond saying anything to Angela that it's disgusting, perverse. I slowly make my way back toward the bed, dropping my purse onto the floor. He holds his arms out, his face a curious mixture of stress and relief.

I slide into them and it hurts like perfection.

"We knew each other in high school, sort of. She was my best friend's girlfriend. She was pretty. Off limits."

His hands pull the hair from my neck, twists it around his wrist. I feel his pinky run from my ear to my collarbone, back and forth.

"Delicate," he interjects. When I look up at him he smiles sad and apologetic.

"My friend—Tyler was his name—he knocked her up. At the end of sophomore year. Or maybe it was junior year. Shit, I can't even remember anymore." He laughs then, but it's cruel and hard and oh so unforgiving.

"You slept with her?" I ask.

His fingers freeze.

"No!" Appalled. "Like I said, off-limits."

"Tyler and I, we were both on the baseball team. He was the star, though. The pitcher. Everybody loved him. I was just, you know, another guy in the outfield. I didn't really mind. That was just how it was." He clears his throat. I look toward the window, giving him some modicum of privacy. I feel him trace the curve of my ear, hot breath on the back of my neck. "Anyway, it was a big game near the end of the season. An away game. Tyler couldn't just not show, but I could. They could replace me. He asked me if I could take Angela to the clinic for him so I did."

It doesn't take me long to put two and two together. I grab one of his hands and pull it into my lap. Surround it.

"She was destroyed, Bella. I had to help her."

"You took it so far . . ."

"I thought, after awhile, I had feelings for her as well. I think . . . I think I just made myself have them."

"Edward . . ."

"After we got married we moved to California for a new start. A rebirth. It didn't work so we retreated back here, to the forest we know. I don't think it's working either—" He stops short suddenly, almost as if choked. I turn to a tortured face, a broken puzzle with a thousand pieces. Overwhelming.

"It'll be okay," I say, because what else can you say?

He looks at me warily, disbelieving. A hand cups my cheek.

"Even if that's true, sometimes I just want a little escape for the meantime."

"I know."

"Is that so much to ask?" Desperation.

"I don't know."

His lips trail fire down my chest as the sun rises over the tops of the trees. I pull off his shirt and the rest of his clothes and we lay here for what feels like days, what feels like years. My hands run over his chest and legs and ankles and feet and neck as he sighs into me, fingers roaming up and over my bra and down and up and down and up.

His eyes squeeze shut when I touch that one spot there, and he pulls me up against him flush skin to skin.

"It shouldn't feel like this," he whispers, so quiet I almost miss it. Calloused fingers pull the last bits of cotton away and he sighs just once, one long exhale of _finally_.

And I feel it, too.

I feel that _finally_, all the way from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.

It's home.

* * *

**"i've known her since i was born" -ryan lochte when asked about his mom. my hero :*)**


	16. Chapter 16

**sixteen**

* * *

The days slide into weeks slide into months. We're careening towards summer before we know it. It's April, but the rain is just as heavy as it was in October, as it was in January. The mud squelches beneath my feet as I walk across the overgrown yard, up the front steps of the Cullen house.

Charlie is at work, as always. Angela is at work, as always. Edward took the day off. He called in one of those fits he has, where his voice sounds like everything is falling apart and everything is coming together all at once. The passion leaks through the phone and twines around my skin, pulling me to him with ease.

"Come over," he says. "Come over, come over, come over."

And now I'm here on a sick day, mud up to my ankles, hair in a loose knot, standing on the porch.

He opens the door.

"Come in," he says. "Come in, come in, come in."

His face moves like clouds in a storm, tumultuous and constant. His eyes flash from the door to my shoes to my face to my hands to my skin all over, over, over. Brows furrow and teeth glint and lips purse and his hand runs through his hair again and again.

"It's a bad day." He's confessing, not looking toward me. Staring at the ceiling.

I wrap my arms around his bicep, but he still won't look at me. The door swings open, shuttering in the wind. I sigh, reaching back and pulling it closed. It's quiet in here. Quiet and dark. Dark wood, dark paint, dark floors.

I watch patiently as he closes the blinds, first in the living room then in the kitchen. He swings the curtains shut with a flourish, leaving them dancing in his wake.

"A bad day," he mutters again, almost a mantra. His feet smack against the floor in a militaristic beat, steady and sure and constant. His voice mimics. Bad day, bad day, bad day.

I'm tired of it. I slip off my shoes and roll up my jeans, padding barefoot up the stairs and into the bedroom. He watches me from the awning but he doesn't follow. He takes so long I switch on the TV for noise, staring at the flickering screen in apathy.

I'm three episodes into the sitcom when I give up.

"Fuck it," I mutter to myself, shutting off the TV and walking back down the stairs. I see him in my peripheral vision, sitting on the living room couch. Staring at nothing.

"Don't go," he says when I reach the front door. His voice is stiff and dry. I stop and sigh.

"It's always that," I say. I stare at the door. "It's always 'don't go.' But you don't come. You never come."

"Bella."

"You have to meet me halfway, Edward. I can't do it anymore."

Am I tired of being the secret?

He stands abruptly.

"No." He stomps over to me, angry now.

His hand is on my wrist and this time . . . this time it hurts.

"Let go." He does.

"Please," he says. My chin trembles. He touches it with his pointer finger, a touch so soft it's barely there. "Oh, don't cry. Don't cry."

I clench my jaw.

I think _fuck you_. I think _I won't cry over you_. I think _I'm stronger than that_.

I say: "I won't."

And then I walk out the door. He doesn't chase after me. He could, but he doesn't. Instead, he watches me walk back across his lawn, through the thick, squelching mud. Through the rain. Through the front door of Charlie's house until I'm gone, out of sight but not out of mind.

I keep my shoes on, leaving tracks of mud all the way up the stairs.

_I'm stronger than that _I think over and over and over. I won't cry over a boy. Not a stupid boy. I won't be one of those girls. I'm the girl who doesn't care. I'm the girl who doesn't feel. I'm the girl who doesn't love.

I spend the rest of the night in my room losing the battle with myself.

"I'm sick," I tell Charlie when he comes in the next morning.

"Again?" he asks.

"Still. Same thing. Cold. Flu." I cough.

"Do you want me to pick you up anything at the store, Bells? Some soup? Actually, I think we already have soup . . ." He trails off, thinking about the soup.

"We do."

"How about cough drops?"

"We have those, too."

"Nyquil?"

"Cabinet over the sink in your bathroom."

He clears his throat.

"I'll get you some."

He leaves after depositing the medication on my bedside table. I'm not sure if he truly believes me or if he's just too scared to fight me. Maybe it's a little bit of both.

Edward calls at noon. And then at one. And then at two. And then at three.

I don't answer until seven, an hour before Charlie usually returns from work. That way, I won't give in to him. I won't spend the day there. I won't fall into his trap. He can't hold me here. He can't make me come to him and hide. Not this time. Not anymore.

"I'm sorry," he says when I answer. "Come over."

"No."

"The house is empty."

"I don't care."

He knows I care.

"Please."

"No."

"I have something to tell you."

"Then tell me on the phone."

He stops talking, and I hear the diluted noise of a deep inhale.

"Okay," he says. Pause. "Angela left me two days ago."

"Because of us?" I ask.

"No."

"Why?"

"That's all you have to say? 'Why?'"

"What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to console me, damnit. I want you to be with me. I want you to _come over_."

The words seem to explode from my mouth. They're out before I can even think about the consequences. Before I can think about what I'm saying.

"Oh, poor Edward. The wife he never loved left him free of any ties to her. What will he do now?" I drip with sarcasm and cruelty, so harsh that my body shakes.

There's a pause. Then a quiet,

"Fuck you, Bella."

"Fuck you, too," I snap.

I hang up. My mouth tastes bitter. My heartbeat pounds in my chest. I finally cry.

* * *

**sometimes when we're young we say things we don't mean like that one time i told my brother to eat two bowls of chocolate mousse and he did and then he threw up on me**

**kinda like that**


	17. Chapter 17

**seventeen**

* * *

I'm nearly asleep when he taps on the closed window.

It's raining hard tonight—storming. The clouds are teeming in the sky. Boiling. Angry. It's slanted rain, the kind that attacks windows and doors with a special brand of vehemence.

"I climbed up the tree," he says after climbing through, shoulders soaked and smelling of stale beer and cigarettes.

"I saw," I reply, sliding the window back into place. Shutting out the cold. He stands dripping in the middle of my bedroom, all worn and creased and out of place. He wrings his hands together, looking for something to do. I see his eyes dart back and forth, cataloguing my bed. My dresser. My closet.

"I've only ever seen all this through the window," he says near reverence, reminding me of our daily trysts with only partial clothing. It makes me clench my jaw with regret.

How naïve I once was.

And when I look at him and see him just standing there—all green eyes and wet hair and parted mouth—all I want to do is kiss him.

How naïve I still am.

He takes off his jacket and holds it in his hands. It's been three days since we last spoke, three days since our first fight. Three days since I've left the house, showered, or eaten anything except Top Ramen and orange juice.

He looks haggard, too. It makes me happy somewhere deep down, where all I want is for him to have suffered as much as I have. I know it's true. I can tell by the circles beneath his eyes, that permanent, stitched frown. The way his head hangs low, as if it weighs more than the rest of him all put together.

He reaches his hand out.

"Come here," he says. It's all so familiar.

I don't move.

He walks over to me. Slowly, as if afraid I'll run. He reaches his hand out tentatively, the tips of his fingers brushing against the cold skin of my wrist. He holds it then, my hand limp yet forgiving in his own.

His other hand reaches up, brave now. He cups my cheek with it. His chin rests atop my head. One long inhale, where I taste that stale beer and those cigarettes. The smell is so familiar it makes me wilt.

He surrounds me, his cheek on the top of my head, his arms wrapped around my back. My eyes are closed. I'm clutching his shirt so tightly, pulling at the edges.

"I missed you," he says, because he knows I can't bear to say it. Can't bear to even acknowledge it. "And I didn't mean what I said. Not any of it."

I can't see his face when he talks, though I feel the hum in his chest beneath my fingertips. I rest my cheek against it and feel warm. His fingers tighten around my back; dig into the soft cotton of my T-shirt.

"I didn't mean it, either," I say, and though it's barely audible I know he hears me.

It's true and it isn't. Is it possible to mean something partially? Is it possible to not know just how much I said was true?

He leads me to my bed and we lay side by side. His fingers weave through my hair over and over and over until I curl my body into his chest. It might have taken minutes or it might have taken hours. I can't remember falling asleep.

I also don't remember hearing my alarm clock or any of the sharp knocks on my bedroom door. I hear no birds, no screaming morning kettle, no shower and no footsteps in the hallway. I sleep through it all. In fact, the very first thing I wake up to is Charlie standing in the middle of my bedroom, staring with an open mouth.

I blink rapidly and he finally finds his voice.

He clears his throat, and with an eerie calm states: "What. The. Fuck."

* * *

**ya'll should read stubborn love by vampshavelaws/iambeagle coz they are both so le good. it's under the penname vampireshavebeagles. **


	18. Chapter 18

**eighteen**

* * *

There is no anger. There is only disappointment.

That's the worst of it, I think. The cold stares at my back. The way he won't meet my gaze. When he leaves the room just as I've entered it.

I hear him once, talking on the phone late at night. His voice is rough and tired and world-weary, though never once have I thought my father truly old. Suddenly, he sounds it. I don't know whom he's speaking to. It's a confessional.

"I don't know what I did wrong," he says, tucked into the corner of the couch. The television hums low and steady, making his words run thick like cold soup. "Maybe I should've sent her to private school. I've never been one for parenting."

He listens to the cold, hard plastic, and hidden on the other side of the wall—I wait.

"She never talks to me. Is that her fault?" Pause. "I don't know. I don't know what to say. She's eighteen now, old enough to—" Pause. "No, not nearly old enough for _that_. God." Pause. "She's nearly graduated. She can do what she wants. I don't know. Maybe I shouldn't have taken her—maybe would've been better off . . ." Pause.

I leave, tired.

I remember Edward stumbling out of the bed, the fear so blatant in his eyes. The two men standing across from each other, judging but not speaking. The lump in Edward's throat as he swallowed deep and heavy. Regret, glancing back toward me. His mutterings of "I'm sorry, so sorry" as he made his greedy escape. Charlie, not even speaking. (Not even breathing.)

I stare at the ceiling, tired.

The nights have been like this lately: hard and cruel and waiting for summer. I watch as the sunset lingers later and later, until the days are just long stretches of clouds leaking into night.

Even the stars are cloaked in shadows, the night so dark and deep.

There's something so spectacularly lonely about being a night owl. There's triumph in being the last one awake, that last holdout to the supposed bodily constrictions of man. The aching fatigue. The weary soldier. The survivor. But what is won at the end of the battle if there is no one awake to share it with?

At this point, I'm not sure what's right and I'm not sure what's wrong. All I know is I can't spend another night alone.

These nights alone are rubbing me raw. I slide open the window with a rusty creak, angling myself out one leg and then the next. The branches are wet with recent rain, slippery with growing mold and scratchy with leaves. My jeans and shirt are muddy by the time my bare feet hit the cool grass.

The sun is just sinking behind the trees, hazy in the smoky clouds. I open the wood paneled fence to his backyard, my wet feet leaving footprints against the deck. The sliding glass door is uncovered, giving me full view to the darkened house.

It's disturbingly unchanged, down to the dark, dark wood.

I knock on the glass and wait. And wait. And wait. Finally, I see the back of his head as he walks to the front door. I knock again and he whips around.

His face is blurry through the dirty glass, shadowed by the dim lighting. We stare at each other for a few moments until he finally comes over, faster faster faster until the door slides open and he slips out.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, and I think I break a little under the heaviness of his voice. His eyes glance back to my house quickly several times.

"What's wrong with me?" I ask him instead, for something has to be. After all, I keep coming back. It doesn't look right or sound right or act right or taste right but God damnit it feels right.

His mouth opens, lets out a breath. Brow furrowed.

"Nothing," he says. "Nothing's wrong with you."

His hands pull me inside, until my bare feet sink into the soft carpeting of his living room. He slides the door shut and looks at me sadly, wanton yet resigned. His internal debate wars for a few moments, though I see something cement when his shoulders sink.

Maybe he's given up.

"Come here," he says, the forehead kiss so chaste it hurts. He leans in close. "I wish you weren't so wrong," he whispers, hot breath on my neck. "Because I swear to God it feels too right."

My fingers tangle into his.

Absently, I wonder how long it'll take Charlie to even realize I'm missing.

* * *

**blah blah blah i have nothing to say. i appreciate le reads/recs/reviews etc for this story ya'll are da best js js**


	19. Chapter 19

**nineteen**

* * *

The biggest lie I ever told myself is that I wouldn't get too attached to anyone, to anything. I made myself believe that there was no one that could hold me anywhere, that I couldn't care deeply enough about anything to let it control me.

I've lost that power. All of it is now held between two limp, calloused hands. They dangle over the bed, arms entangled in sheets, draped casually over my stomach.

"She's not coming home," he said, just as the last bit of light disappeared in the sky.

"She hasn't come home in days," he said.

I called Jessica for a solid cover. Thankfully, she agreed. After climbing back through my window and walking down the stairs as if I'd never left, I told Charlie I'd be leaving.

"For how long?" he'd asked, eyes never leaving the television.

"A couple days. I need to get out of the house."

"Do what you want, Bella," he'd said. "Just do what you want."

He's given up on me, that's for sure. I just don't know if he's given up on Edward.

I try not to think about that now, wrapped up beneath the cool sheets, Edward's arm heavy and warm. My bare stomach glows pale and white, the moonlight casting stripes across our bodies. I try not to think about Charlie, about my mother, about my grandmother, about anything or anyone.

I try even to ignore Edward, though his breath hits my neck in a constant reminder of his presence. I stir, removing his arm from my body. I stand naked and still, peering out the cracks in the blinds into his backyard. Into the forest, so deep and black.

Never have I wanted to disappear so badly.

I look back to Edward, his body limp on the bed. His mouth is parted, his eyes relaxed. Youth leaks from him now, escaping in the carefully guarded crevices of the daytime. The lines in his skin are gone, flawless in relaxation. His eyes flicker beneath closed lids, his hair limp against his forehead. I reach over and smooth it back, a motherly gesture that I've seen in the movies.

He stirs.

"What's wrong?" he asks, eyes barely parted. I lean over him.

"I don't know. Nothing. Everything. I don't think I can ever tell."

He exhales.

"I feel everything all at once. The good and the bad. The guilt. The sadness. The happiness. I just want to feel only happy or only sad. Is that so much to ask?" I confess.

"You're human," he says. He grabs my wrists and pulls me down into him, skin on skin on skin. His hand travels over my cheek and down my neck, resting just above my heart.

"What do you feel the most?" he asks.

"Right now?"

He nods.

"Guilt."

He frowns.

"What do you feel the most?" I ask.

He pauses.

"Love?"

It sounds like a question.

"It sounds like a question."

"Love," he repeats. Conviction this time. "Love."

I run my fingers over his jaw, watching as he studies me with darkened eyes.

"Now what do you feel the most?" he asks.

"Still guilt," I sigh.

His hand travels from my chest, down to my stomach.

"Now what do you feel the most?" he asks.

"Guilt."

His hand moves even lower.

"And now?"

I close my eyes.

"Now?"

I clench my eyes.

"Now?"

Now? Now? Now?

x

He's up far too early for my liking. The air is still cold, the light thin and weak. He's shuffling around the bedroom, occasionally stopping to brush a chilled finger down my leg or arm.

"What are you doing?" I ask, groggy.

"Getting ready."

I pull the blanket up to my chin. It is a quilt, worn at the corners with age. Even the color is fading, the deep blue victim to one too many bleach spills. The jersey sheets are all at the base of the bed now, clearly forgotten after the night's activities.

"You're coming with," he says, throwing one of his t-shirts at me.

He pulls two wet suits out of the closet.

"You're crazy," I say.

He rolls his eyes.

"I'll _drown_."

"Oh, don't be such a baby," he scoffs. "See if that fits."

I hold the wetsuit up to my body.

"Aren't you supposed to wear a bathing suit under this?" I ask.

"Jesus. Put it on."

I struggle into it as he gets everything else ready. I've nearly managed to poke my eye out twice by the time he returns, everything packed away in the car. His finger trails up my spine as he zips up the back.

"Perfect fit," he mutters, offhand. Yet, when I turn around, that crease is there right between his eyes. I want that youthful face back. The relaxed face, carefree. I reach up and rub the line with my finger until it disappears.

"Come on," he says.

The drive to La Push isn't long, maybe thirty minutes. But by the time we get there the sun is full in the sky, the light reflecting on the ocean water. It stinks of salt. I watch from a distance as the waves crash angrily against the rocky shore.

"I'm going to drown," I say as we descend the beach.

"No you won't," he says.

"How do you know?" I ask.

"Because I won't let you."

Our feet touch the water and I cringe.

"Okay, you're right," I say.

"About what?" he asks.

"I won't drown. I'm going to freeze to death first."

He drops the surfboard on the beach, the sound rattling against the rocks. He holds out his hand.

"Come on," he says.

I stare at his face and then out to the water. The waves are angry, rolling hills morphing into peaks of churning white. Out in the distance, they arc, crash, explode. The water runs toward us, the foaming white moving up and around our ankles. My toes are numb.

I look again to his hand, outstretched toward me, all patient and waiting.

And I don't know when, exactly, it happened. I don't know at what point I lost all of me in this person. There's no specific time I can picture, no freeze frame of a first "I love you" or a first date or a first kiss or a first fuck. It's all of it together. It's the words and his eyes and the early morning light with his silhouette in front of it. It's the feeling of his skin touching mine when I don't expect it. It's that smile, the one the crinkles his eyes. The real one.

It's all of it together and I'm so goddamn lost in it. I'm so goddamn trapped in it. It's everything and I don't know how to get out—don't even know if I ever want to.

So I look at the sky and the waves and the huge ocean—all salt and sea and power—and I take his goddamn hand.

* * *

**hi. im rusty sorry**


	20. Chapter 20

**twenty**

* * *

I get my acceptance letter to the University of Oregon via my dad. It's the first time he's truly paid attention to me in days, and even though his frown is set and his eyes hard, I can see a hint of a smile threatening the edges of his mouth. I take the letter up to my room before I open it, staring at the dirtied envelope with my name typed precisely in the center.

I slide my fingernail under the flap with a quick swipe. The edge of the envelope—sharp, unforgiving—slices into the sensitive skin of my fingertip. As I unfold my acceptance, a drop of blood lands and blooms directly over the 'congratulations.'

I'm rejected from UW a few days later. Both letters make their way underneath my clothes, hiding between the shirts and jeans in the bottom drawer. I try to forget about them, even though we're nearing on the final weeks of high school and all the seniors seem to be thinking about is college. I spend my days avoiding the questions with a slight smile, ducking out of conversations, hiding in bathrooms.

Jessica is attending USC, which is weird because I didn't even know she was smart. Both Alice and Jasper are going to smaller private schools in and around Tacoma, where they can major in pre-med and then eventually switch to something like psychology or communications. I, myself, haven't even thought that far. The entirety of my mind is still spent fixated on the house next door.

Angela moved back in a week ago. Well, she never really left. I see her looking at me, though. When we're taking a test or writing an essay in class. She doesn't think I notice, but I do. Those quizzical eyes, stapled to my forehead. Dying to look away. I reach up and meet her gaze sometimes. Her brown eyes widen, dart to the side.

She's suspicious, yes. She knows, doubtful.

And then it's graduation.

And then it's June.

And then it's July.

And then it's August.

And Angela won't leave and Charlie won't leave and I'm stuck in this prison of a house as I watch Edward watch me.

It's not until the first week of September when she finally goes. When the times overlap and it's Edward in one house and me next door, waiting. I see through my window. She pulls out of the drive, mascara running down her cheeks in thick black lines. She wipes them furiously as she backs out, rain hitting the windshield with a vengeance.

He calls my phone only minutes later.

"Come over."

Charlie is gone. His shift doesn't end until 10. I have three hours with him. Three solid hours. But I leave for Oregon next week, and somehow these hours feel more of a curse than a blessing.

I throw on my rain boots and duck out the door.

It's raining hard, fast. I'm soaked through in moments, splashing my way through muddy puddles and squishy grass as I cross his lawn. He meets me at the back door, arms open wide as he slides the glass open.

"You're all wet," he says, lips meeting my forehead. He peels off my jacket with his hands, the wet fabric dropping to the floor with a muted thump.

He wraps my damp hair around and around until it's pulled tight in his fist. His head falls down to the crook of my neck, the length of his nose pressed right into the bloody pulse of my carotid artery. I feel his breath there, other hand weaving gently around my back, warm palm up my shirt.

I feel small here-fragile, even-enveloped in the arms of another.

"It's been a long time," he says, for the months have been long and the weeks have been long and the days have been long and the hours have been long and the minutes have been long and each and every second so damn long.

I nod, agreement. Hands cradling his head. He pulls me closer.

I hear the ticking of the clock in the kitchen and the beat of my own heart.

I lay back on the bed, still in my damp clothes. I watch as he pulls off my shoes, socks. Rolls up my jeans. Kisses my ankle. Looks up at me through a fringe of lashes, dark in the musty room. He travels up my body, eyes locked on my own, until he rests beside me. One heavy arm thrown over my stomach, pulling me close.

When we're like this, he's just Edward. There's no preconceived notions or frowns or sideways glances or judgmental stares. There's no wife or parents or Charlie or backstory or complications. There's just him. Him and the way his eyes crinkle when he says my name. Him and his forearms, lightly dusted with hair and brushing sparks over my bare stomach. Him and his jeans, rolled up twice above his dirty boots. Brown socks. Ankles.

These are the things I remember when his lips touch my neck for what I inevitably know will be the last time. I can taste it in the salt on his skin while my tongue finds that spot near his collarbone that he likes so much. The regret of it. The finality of it.

He feels it, too. I can tell by the way he holds on a little too tight. Grips the skin at my waist, fingertips leaving pale dots that turn a bright red as they depart. The way his legs weave through mine, though we're fully clothed.

The static between us. The crippling electricity.

"Is this it, then?" he asks, always straight to the point.

"We have a few hours."

"That's not enough," he says.

"I know," I agree.

His flannel shirt is soft against my skin as we roll over, my body pinned to the bed beneath him.

"Where are you leaving me for? Someplace sunny?" he asks.

"No."

"Someplace warm?" he asks.

"No."

"Someplace with family?" he asks.

"No."

"Someplace you've always wanted to go?" he asks.

"No."

"Someplace you'll be loved?" he asks.

"No."

"I can't bear it." His hands grip either side of my neck and he could break me if he wanted to, right here and right now. Squeeze until I choke, until I suffer, until I'm dead, forever in his arms.

"Do you want me to lie to you?" I ask.

"Yes. Please. Yes. Anything." It's a beg.

He pulls me to him and it's like a mother telling his son a story. It's like there's a thunderstorm outside, lightning crackling against the roof. _It'll be okay_, I want to coo, fingers woven in his hair. _It's just a storm. The storm will always pass._

"It's warm there, where I'm going. It's near the ocean. The air always smells of salt. At night, if you listen real close, you can hear the palm trees in the wind. There's no traffic, there's no rain. People are happy. There's old and young, all mixed together. There's a man on the corner lot, his home right up against the shore. He whistles into the breeze and I swear the tune carries for miles. People come from all over to hear his music. The children, they build sandcastles as tall as skyscrapers. Castle after castle. They're never blown away in the wind or flattened by the rising surf. The water is always calm, and it's as clear as turquoise. There's birds of a thousand colors. And every day, the locals visit the beach at sunset. Together, they paint seashells on the beach and cast them away, presents for a distant shore."

"Will you paint one for me?" he asks.

"I'll paint one for you every day. I'll paint one until they all wash up at La Push. I'll paint one until the beach is a rainbow of my seashells, thousands of them for you."

"I'll wait for them," he says, voice quieter now.

We lay still until I hear the sound of Charlie pulling up in the drive. Then, quiet as a mouse, I slip away while Edward sleeps.

* * *

**this is probably like 100% illegal but i'm making a film for school and it's my final film and it's costing me like hella money. if you want to donate to said film message me and i'll send u a link and i'll write something for u. whatever u want. srsly. original, fic, whatever. anything ! xox**


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